Disclaimer: I don't
own Bleach. That however is not my greatest regret. It's the fact
that I'm in love with a fifteen year old boy, who is a cartoon. I
think there are laws against that.

This is my first
attempt at a Bleach fic. I hope that you enjoy it. Let me know what
you think!

Hollow

Blue sky with wispy
clouds float by the constructs of metal and glass. The emptiness and
complexity of the mind is both stunning and amusing.

My amusement is not
real. It's sarcasm overlapping cynicism coupled with apathy. I
feel…nothing. At the moment I am nothing more than a doll, waiting
to be animated, waiting for something, anything to fill me.

Perhaps the dull tingle
that I feel in the back of my brain is longing. The residual memory
of what was and what could be. But was memory really a feeling?

I sit and I watch,
waiting for a glimpse of something besides emptiness. On rare
occasions visions appear, of places and faces that I have never been
or met, but I know them by name---by heart.

Inoue brings
feelings of protectiveness, and the faintest stirring of lust.

Sado, Chad is
the embodiment of camaraderie. The one person I can trust to stand
with me, no matter what.

Ishida, the
Quincy that hates Death Gods. The man who hates me, but all I feel
for him is grudging respect.

And Rukia. Her
face I see most often. Her hard seriousness during the day, the
glimmering of her smile at night. The feelings for her are the most
complex. Friendship, protectiveness, lust and the confused
awkwardness of a teenage boy who has the thoughts of a man.

But none of these
feelings are mine. They are his. The Other's. They are
remnants, forgotten memories of the past that may not even be mine.
The faces come and go, taking their useless emotions with them,
leaving me behind in the emptiness.

The Old Man stands to
the side, perched upon his sword. His black robes ripple in a
non-existent wind, their very darkness sucking up all the light
around him, casting him in shadow.

He is waiting too.
Waiting for a different reason. He waits for life. For the time
that he can be called out into battle to protect the lives of his
wielder's friends. For the time that he must preserve the
boy-man's life.

I wait for chance. For
the one moment that the world cracks apart and there is an opening.
I wait for death.

I can feel it. Moving
inside me like a living thing. Slipping through my innards and
coiling in my guts. Thoughts and feelings swamp me, nearly drowning
me with their intensity.

With those feelings
comes the hunger. The hunger for power, for life, for the rich
ripeness of a holy soul. It rips through me, a living monster that
wants to tear me apart, rendering me a useless puppet to its will.
It takes my body, filling the barren void, urging me to madness.

I focus on the rage
that comes through clearly from the Other. It is something
that I can understand, something that I remember from before. I use
it to control the hunger, to mold it into a weapon of my choosing.
But it is not my rage, it is his, and my ability to wield it is
hampered by his other emotions. The need to protect that comes hand
and hand with the desire to win.

That I don't
understand.

Winning should be
paramount to all things. It should be the only thing that matters.
No cost was too high. But for the boy, failure to protect was defeat
in battle.

The sky above me
streaks with red. I stand, reveling in the emotions whipping through
me. For a moment I finally feel alive, happy even. Are these
emotions constructs that I create or is it just residual effects? An
echo of his?

The Old Man turns his
face to the sky, his face emotionless, his demeanor calm. But I know
he is tense and expectant beneath his black robes. Like me is his
waiting to strike. To reach out and grasp freedom.

The world shakes and
the glass cracks. I smile as visions of blood and battle flash
across the sky like wicked lightning.

The time is
approaching. I can feel it in the depths of my bones and the
coldness of my skin.

The world cracks and
the glass shatters. I gather myself, leaping with all my strength
towards the gross, gouging rip in the sky. It was a gaping wound,
red and angry, hemorrhaging atmosphere, sucking pain.

Something bullets by
me, black silk whips across my eyes. I shake it away in time to see
the Old Man slip through the crack, disappearing from sight.

I pump my legs,
desperate to reach the slit, but it is already sealing. I reach out,
slamming into nothingness seconds too late.

Roaring in defeat and
despair I hurdle back toward the ground, landing with as much force
as I can muster. The glass does not break, it doesn't even creak.
Already the world is stabilizing, already he is regaining
control.

The red in the sky
leaks away giving way to blue. The hunger inside me lessons, fading
to a dull ache. Eventually everything seeps away---the
protectiveness, the battle hunger, even my own defeat. Nothing is
left behind, not even tatters of false memories.

Something tingles in
the back of my mind, and I think that it must be longing. Desperate
I reach for it, wanting something to keep me company while I wait,
but it is as elusive as my meaningless dreams.

The clouds wisp by,
emptiness swallowed by eternity. Inside there is nothing.

I am forsaken. I am
barren.

I am…Hollow.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.